


Salve Regina

by ElDiablito_SF



Series: Snippets in Time [4]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Blasphemy, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Poetry, Prayer!Kink, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, lavender rage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:13:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another fight - what a great excuse for make-up sex!  In this epic battle of Athos vs. God, Athos wins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salve Regina

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written March 2010

 

Athos stood before the small house between rue Cassette and rue Servandoni and hesitated before knocking on the door.  Perhaps, he thought, he should take another stroll around the block to clear his mind.  He unclenched his teeth, realizing only then that he had been clenching them at all, and this small movement of the jaw convinced him that the matter indeed deserved another stroll.

True, things were quite bad as he had allowed them to last leave off, but that, in itself, was nothing new.  It was rather much in his nature, it would appear lately, to leave things worse off than how he had found them.  It was some contrary demon within him, it seemed, that bid him speak when he knew he should keep silent, and remain silent when words were desperately required of him.  At least, that’s how it had been with Aramis, when they last parted.

           

He knew that he should not have picked up the piece of paper that fell out of Aramis’ doublet, and he was even more sure, once he picked it up, that he should not have opened it and read it.  But there it was, on the floor, and there was Aramis, sleeping in their bed.  In their bed?  No, in _his_ bed, damn it.   Somehow, that made the piece of paper practically his, did it not?  After all, it was lying right there, on _his_ floor.  Having justified matters to himself, it was mere seconds before he was reading what was scrawled there, in his friend’s almost ridiculously small, neat, familiar handwriting, which Porthos had oftentimes compared to the hand of a woman.

 

_My lover’s eyes are burning me like cinders_

_Inside his gaze distrust is all I see,_

_His smile beckons but suspicion hinders_

_All that is kind that I might feel in me._

_One day consumed in all my jealous fire_

_He fell a victim to my endless rage,_

_He saw the beast that borne of my desire_

_That so much love and hatred can derange._

_Thus immolated in the flames of vengeance_

_He once again became more dearer yet,_

_By destiny or Gods’ cruel joke of mischance,_

_I pray that he might that mistake forget._

_But since forgetfulness to him not given,_

_And still his body given is to me,_

_Perhaps I may one day still be forgiven,_

_And thus forgiven purified I’ll be._

Athos had reread the words several times, to a point where he could have recited the poem back to Aramis had the latter been awake.  _Immolated in the flames of vengeance_ , indeed.  But that was not, Athos knew, why Aramis only saw distrust in his eyes.  It was the only way he knew how to look at another human being.  However, Athos reflected, Aramis had not broken it off with her, as he had promised.  No, that much was certain, Aramis was still paying court to his great Lady of the masked face and the scent of lavender.  Lavender made Athos want to vomit, lately.

“What are you doing?” he then heard from the bed.

“Reading a beautiful love story,” Athos offered, in his usual even tone.

“Give that back, it’s not meant for you,” Aramis snapped, sitting up and extending his hand.

“It’s a bit… _florid_ , don’t you think?” Athos said, refolding the sheet of paper, and handing it back to his friend.

“It’s poetry,” Aramis simply replied, reclaiming possession of the paper, but not quite knowing where to put it, in a state of dishabille as he was.

“I suppose, like all good artists, one must spend years in abject suffering in order to truly elevate one’s art,” Athos stated, in a fashion that left the provocation hanging in the air, like mist.  “Perhaps you’ll get there some day.”

“I have no doubt, Athos, that if my art has not been elevated to the appropriate level, that the pleasure of your acquaintance will get me to that point in no time,” Aramis practically hissed.

“Who knows,” Athos shrugged, as this was his usual response that irritated Aramis to no end, as it said so much while saying so little.

Aramis had quickly pulled up his trousers and scanned the room to find the rest of his clothes.  Sometimes, it was better to say nothing at all.  He was not sure this was one of those times.  “Where …. is my shirt?” he finally asked.  Athos reached somewhere into the folds of the sheets on his bed, pulled out a small bundle of white cloth, and silently handed it over.  Aramis slowly put his arms through the sleeves, and without buttoning the shirt, ran his hands methodically through his long hair, smoothing it away from his face.  He held the gaze of Athos for a moment and let his hands drop at his sides.

“You spent several days in the Bastille for him,” he finally said.

“Actually it was Fort-L’Évêque,” Athos corrected, with further infuriating calmness.

“Honestly!”

“And besides, what’s a little prison among friends?  After all, I’m going to a much worse place than the Bastille for just a fraction of what you and I just did here.  Or so the Scripture teaches us.”

“Well, if you’re going to engage in a theological argument with me,” Aramis was boiling over, “I’ll have to point out that, actually, the Church tells us that what you and I have done here is mere acts that are intrinsically disordered.”

“Intrinsically disordered!” Athos widened his eyes and a quasi-grotesque smile spread along his handsome face.  “I’ll say!”

“Don’t change the subject!”

“Why are you here?”  Athos asked, doing exactly the opposite of what was requested.

“I missed you, and I thought, _once again_ , that you were about to get yourself killed!”  Aramis threw up his hands in exasperation, and resumed buttoning his shirt.

“That’s not what I mean.  I mean _why are you here_?”

“I don’t know!” Aramis snapped, throwing on his doublet and trying to buckle on his sword while his hands shook with anger.  “And where are my boots?!”  Athos dove under the bed and came up with one boot.  The other one surprised everyone by being located on top of the small writing table in the corner.  Athos walked over to it and tossed it as well in the direction of his companion.

“If you don’t know why you’re here,” Athos resumed, “I would suggest you go and not come back until you know exactly what it is that you’re doing here.”

“You can be incredibly unfair and a gigantic ogre sometimes,” Aramis sighed.

“Well, I’m not the one who spends nights up the snatch of Duchess after spending the day polishing your barrels!”  There was something incredibly shocking to Aramis in hearing someone speak that way, especially when that someone was a gentleman as refined as his comrade.  He had to admit, it radiated somewhere to his loins.

“Where I spend the night is hardly as evocative as where you spend your nights!” he replied.  “And forgive me if I don’t believe for a moment that you would allow yourself to be confined to the Bastille, or Fort-L’Évêque, or where ever, for someone that you have no feelings for!”  With that, Aramis had snapped the last of his straps in place, picked up his hat, and stormed out of the room.

 

Well, Athos was thinking, finding himself making yet another trip down rue Cassette, he did have feelings for d’Artagnan.  But they were pure, and filial.  Yes, he repeated to himself, he loved d’Artagnan as a son.  As a _son_.  And you don’t want to do things to your son that you want to do to Aramis.  They are different things!  Hell and damnation!  He leaned against the wall and kicked it for emphasis.

No, he definitely did not want to do the things to d’Artagnan that he wanted, so very much, to do to Aramis.  Lavender and perdition!  He wanted to set _fires_ to fields of lavender!  But even more than he was jealous of the masked Duchess (for he was sure she was least a Duchess), whom he happened to glimpse once upon a very unfortunate turn of events, he was more jealous of the unknown.  The unknown and the unknowing:  the fact that Aramis did not know why he was there, why they were what they were.  Athos was jealous of God.  And, most likely, it was into the arms of God, his true nemesis, that Athos had sent Aramis when he had told him to go away and not to come back until he knew why he had been there in the first place.  Athos took a moment to consider whether he hated the smell of frankincense as much as he hated the smell of lavender. 

Curses!  This is exactly the kind of thing that can make Aramis leave the musketeers and enfold himself back into the bosom of the Church!  And what would he say to Porthos then, Athos wondered.  The thought of somehow having to explain to Porthos that it was all his fault that Aramis had left them seemed both absurd and terrifying to him at the same time.  But, after all, what right did he have to lay any claim to Aramis in the first place?  He tried to reflect calmly on this, but only one word kept running through his mind:  MINE.

He had to talk to him, one way or another, and do whatever it took to make sure the catastrophe that he was envisioning did not take place.  Prevent him from rejoining the priesthood by any means necessary, Athos told himself.  He could share Aramis with a woman, but God was going down.  Having come to this conclusion, he finally knocked on the door of Aramis.

That country imbecile, Bazin, opened the door with his usual frowning face, asking for a slap, in the opinion of Athos.  He had often wanted to beat him and regretted that Aramis refused to be as violent with his oaf of a servant as he had been quite willing to be in bed with himself.  “Is your master in?” he finally asked, overcoming his initial instinct to imprint the lackey’s face with his hand.

“My master has specifically requested not to be disturbed,” the brazen fool had replied.

“He did not mean me, you oaf!” Athos said, pushing the servant out of the way.

“I beg your pardon, monsieur,” Bazin had placed himself deftly in between Athos and the door to the next room and folded his arms across his chest, “But my master specifically told me not to allow the Devil Himself in, by which, if I dare say so, he encompassed your most noble of selves.”

Athos gave the servant a look of such disdain that the poor fellow shivered despite having been resolved earlier to die right then and there rather than disobey a direct order from his master.  “Very well,” Athos said coolly, “You’ve done what you were asked to do.  Now step aside.”  With that, he simply extended his hand, and moved the stupefied Bazin gently out of his way.

“But, sir…” Bazin made one more attempt and put his hand on the shoulder of Athos. 

Athos stopped before the door, half turned his head toward the servant, and said in a terrifyingly quiet voice, “I have killed many people.”  At that, Bazin took a quick bow, and backing away from the musketeer, backed entirely out of the house.

His path finally unimpeded, he opened the door that he knew led to the bedroom of Aramis.  The bedroom, which led into a shady garden, due to the foliage was normally quite dark, however, this time, even the curtains of the room were drawn tightly, making the room feel a bit like a tomb to Athos.  In the far corner of the small room, Athos knew that Aramis had set up a makeshift altar, with a simple crucifix on the wall, and a prie-dieu before it.

Just as he had feared, Aramis was kneeling on the prie-dieu, his hands clasped together in prayer, his head resting upon his hands.  He had not stirred upon hearing Athos come in, and, as it would have been impossible that he had not heard the commotion leading up to this entry, Athos had to assume it was a deliberate stupor.  For some moments, he stood there, transfixed by the terrifying sight before him, which symbolized to him the end of all that he held dear in what remained in his sad joke of a life.  He said nothing, and in the silence of the room he could hear a soft susurration emanating from his friend:  Aramis had to have been praying.

Athos walked up to the prie-dieu with a soft step and stood over his kneeling companion, watching him.  Aramis had raised his beautiful head from his folded hands, but had not turned.  His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the crucifix. 

“ _Salve Regina, mater misericordiae_ ,” Athos recited softly.

“ _Vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve_ ,” echoed Aramis.

“ _Ad te clamamus exsules filii Hevae_ ,” they said in unison. _To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve_.  Athos had removed his cloak and threw it onto the bed.  He then knelt directly behind Aramis, wrapped his arms around him, and put his head at the base of his friend’s neck.  A barely perceptible shudder seemed to run through Aramis.  He placed his head back onto his hands, his body stiffened.

“ _Ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes in hac lacrimarum valle_ ,” Athos continued the prayer. _To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears_.  He tightened his grasp around the chest of Aramis, and pressed his lips to the back of his neck, where a moment ago his forehead had rested. 

“Athos!” the latter had gasped, allowing his head to fall back, so that their faces were touching.  “What are you doing?”

“Continue,” Athos said, quietly, his lips traveling softly up and down the neck of Aramis.

“This is….” Aramis did not finish, as he was interrupted by the mouth of Athos enveloping his earlobe.

“Continue,” Athos whispered again.

“ _Eia, ergo…. advocata nostra… illos tuos misericordes oculos…. ad nos converte_ ,” Aramis had obeyed, haltingly. _Turn then, most gracious Advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us_.

“Go on,” Athos whispered, his hands expertly undoing the buttons of his friend’s doublet.

“ _Et Iesum_ …” Aramis began again.  “Athos!  I can’t!”  But his protestation was not being heeded, as his doublet was removed, and a hot and probing mouth was still traveling up and down the length of his throat.  “No,” he tried to groan, but he could feel his body responding in a way that left no question that while his mouth may have been saying “No” everything else was saying “Yes” very loudly.

“Continue,” the voice commanded, as Aramis felt nails digging into the flesh of his chest.  He had involuntarily thrust back against the demon behind him, only to reassure himself that his seducer was much in the same state of arousal as he had so embarrassingly found himself in.  “Pray,” he was ordered again.

“ _Et Iesum_ ,” he continued, having lost all control of his senses, “ _benedictum fructum ventris tui_ …. Ah!” he paused to catch his breath as the hands that had been devouring him traveled deftly to root of all his troubles. “… _nobis post hoc exsilium ostende_ ,” he finished in a torrent of panic.  His trousers were being pulled down.

“Go on,” the dark voice prodded him again.  He felt one arm still wrapped tightly around his chest, while the other was circling the orbs of his rear.

“Please,” Aramis begged, not sure what he was asking for anymore.

“Finish the prayer,” the voice commanded, while the hand spread him apart. 

“ _O clemens_ ,” Aramis moaned.

“O clement,” the voice translated, as fingers began to stretch the inside of Aramis.

“ _O pia_!”

“O loving,” said the voice.

“ _O dulcis Virgo Maria!”_

“ _Amen_ ,” concluded the voice.  Aramis knew that it was all over for him then, as he was bent easily over his own prie-dieu, and entered in one sure stroke.

Aramis had closed his eyes and allowed the wave of pleasure surging through his body to overcome him.  The rhythm of his lover riding him became the only real thing in the world, and completely forgetting where he was or what he was doing, he uttered “ _Ora pro nobis, sancta Dei Genetrix_.” _Pray for us, O Holy Mother of God_.

“ _Ut digni efficiamur promissionibus Christi_ ,” Athos concluded, suddenly biting down hard into the flesh between Aramis’ neck and shoulder, no longer able to overcome the desire to mark this man as his own. _That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ._

Aramis thought his heart would explode out of his chest, as he was completely overwhelmed by the simultaneous feel of Athos inside him and the hand that still stroked him in the same rhythm with which he was being ridden.  Bracing himself with both arms against the prie-dieu, he fixed his eyes on the crucifix, and definitely did not see it.  When he felt the teeth of Athos on his flesh, nothing would have made more sense to him at that moment.  And then, he felt his head being pulled back roughly by the hand grasping his hair, and his mouth was enveloped by the lips of perdition, whose taste he knew so well and craved so often.   He felt himself climaxing and collapsing in a heap of body parts at the foot of the makeshift altar, their limbs entwined, like serpents around Laocoön and his sons.

Aramis was not sure how long they had been lying there.  Eventually, he felt a soft tug, and a pair of strong arms had simply lifted him off the floor, and placed him onto the bed.  He turned his face and refocused his eyes to find Athos sitting on the bed, looking at him in a very composed fashion, only his perspiration-soaked long hair clinging to his face giving off even the smallest hint of what had just transpired.

“I love you too much to lose you,” Athos spoke at last.  “Even to God.”

Aramis felt a desire to punch him in the face, but an even stronger desire made him lift his hand and put his fingers onto his friend’s swollen mouth.  The mouth opened, and allowed the fingers to travel inside, and Aramis left them there for a few moments, regarding his companion as one would regard a curiosity.

“Perhaps then,” Aramis said, “One of these days, you will pull your head out of the bottle just enough to actually behave like a human being towards me.”

“Who knows,” Athos responded, with a wide grin on his face, and, without a formal invitation, he pulled the sheets over both of them and wrapped his arms around Aramis, as if completely ready to descend into sleep.

“You will be the end of me,” Aramis whispered, resigned.

“Possibly,” Athos answered, drifting off, “But not yet.”  The truth of it was, Athos never slept as well as when he had his arms wrapped around Aramis.


End file.
